


Counting Grief

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:33:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the The Battle of Azanulbizar, Thorin finds his little brother. </p>
<p>Inspired by artwork by papermachette, link is within story notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this lovely picture by papermachette and was thus inspired. My heart, she aches. 
> 
> http://papermachette.tumblr.com/post/45637763474/lacherta-asked-hope-i-am-right-to-write-you

* * *

It had been dark when Thorin found him, the only light came from faint, flickering torches. Through the night, he had heard the low mutters from those who were left, that the Orcs might yet return in from the shadows. Fears that were unfounded, for the only Orcs that remained were corpses, their wretched, twisted forms mingled with those of their own dead.

His own aches were many and ignored, his boots sinking into mud as he struggled through the battlefield, searching. Already his grandfather had been laid out, ready to be carried to what would become his tomb, and his father was still lost, his fate unknown. Thorin searched on through the night, his eyes falling over the still faces of Dwarf and Orc alike, those known and unknown to him as he looked, searching, for he could do nothing else. 

In the end, it was his armor that caught Thorin's eye, the unmistakable gleam of mithril catching even the meagerest of light. He turned to it, quick strides carrying him over even as the faint, quivering flame of hope that he had nursed through the night faded, extinguished as he stood over his little brother, his Frerin, lying still in the mud.

Later, he would not recall sinking to his knees. He would not remember pulling his brother into his arms, clinging to him, resting his chin against the bloody tangle of his hair. He would only remember Frerin's stillness, his silence as he had never been in life, the heaviness of his brother in his arms, as though the dead took on weight. 

His torch flickered, guttering out but the horizon was already grey with the rising sun when Thorin dimly heard footsteps approach, heard them stop, boots caked with gory mud just within his vision. A hand reached out and Thorin flinched from it, clutching his brother against him and slowly it withdrew. 

"Lad, you need to let him go." Gently said, a single voice breaking through the unnatural morning stillness. 

"No," Thorin clung to him, even though he could feel the coldness settling. "No, I cannot leave him here."

"And we won't," Balin's voice was low and soothing, familiar. "We'll see it done properly. Let him go now, there we are." 

Thorin could hardly loosen his hands, grown numb with cold, bloodless and clumsy, and he could only rest there on his knees as Dwalin took up his little brother in his arms. Frerin seemed so small, cradled as he had not been for years and the stains of blood were hidden as his head lolled against Dwalin's chest. But none would mistake him for sleeping, for there was no life in his lax face, no warmth, and no smile would grace it again.

"Do not--" Thorin choked off, his throat closing, for he'd almost pleaded with Dwalin not to hurt him.

He watched Dwalin carry Frerin away through blurred eyes, kneeling in blood-drenched mud until Balin held out a hand to him. "Come along, then," he said, low, "My King."

The morning air stung his damp cheeks, the sun just cresting the horizon and laying its light over the field of their battle. Dwalin was but one figure walking through the corpses of their kin. So many dead. They would have to make a pyre, Thorin decided distantly, for those who could not be set in cold stone. Burning was close to sacrilege but he would not leave any of his kinsmen to the crows. 

Thorin took a deep breath, felt the ache of chilly air in his lungs, before slapping his hand firmly into Balin's and rising. He did not wipe the dampness from his cheeks as he strode after Dwalin and his steps were sure as he raised his voice in a shout to those who remained. There would be time enough for mourning but it would have to wait.

-finis-


End file.
